


of Gorgeous, Godless Terror

by Random_ag



Category: Original Work
Genre: Graphic Description, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:46:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23664100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: A work and ode to the concept of sublime.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	of Gorgeous, Godless Terror

Sublime.

Something which arouses in the soul a feeling of astonishment.

In small doses, it evokes respect, reverence.

But from true sublime will bloom terror.

The sublime lives in the vastness of an ocean fusing with the dark night sky; its long, bony fingers linger in the silence across the empty cosmos. It houses the shadows of pitch black alleyways the end of which seems unreachable, and plays in the forgotten depths of ancient, dim forests. It burns with lightless flames in the eyes of colossal dead beasts, lapping at the alabester pillars of a sunken abandoned temple.

And yet, I see it.

Right in front of me, I see it.

The sublime, its pure raw nature exposed to the entire world.

A man.

His age, undecipherable.

He is tall - well over two meters.

He is dirty, his complex of fuliginous appearance. Through the hazy, staining filth emerges a coarse surface of a dun color - which? I cannot tell.

His limbs are thin from malnourishment: what little skin he has stretches upon naked bones, appalling all who lay their gaze upon him. There are dots, maybe akin to moles and freckles, and minuscule milky scars running across his muscle-less frame.

Ribs rip tissue under clothes too big for such a frail yet horribly strong body, hipbones forcing the stomach in a square shape although he is empty, for nothing, no organ or flesh could ever be contained by such a thin vessel - he cannot have something inside of him! He is a skeleton wearing a dead man’s final dress before he is eaten back from the earth which gave him birth.

Is this even an earthly creature?

Was it concieved upon its surface, or deep within its horrendous entrails, crawling out of them as he now does upon our heads, moving with the very air we breathe?

Does he move? Or is he always still, but omnipresent? I’ve yet to see him arrive, I’ve yet to see him leave. He only is, already standing in perfect silence behind you as you call for his assistance, and he only isn’t, gone the second his task has been fullfilled. He barely speaks; but I can still hear his grave voice climbing upon my spine with thousands of shivers whenever I lay eyes upon him.

Does he hear me? Goodness! Does he hear!

Horrible sound of old nights in a humanoid shape, unfinished sketch left behind by a dying artist come to life, terrible last violent wish of a ghost given form, ghoul of ancient dreams, collection of all murderous thoughts through the ages!

He hears all!

That horrendous, wondrous demon hears all!

And his lightless bright eyes, how they stare!

How they anchor me to a bed of horrors!

How they make me sink in the depths of the void!

They stare, their pupils black as a coal mine, endless and all consuming, oh, how they stare!

Spare me!, I beg him, Spare me!

Spare me!, I beg him, yet I know not what I ask of him.

To be spared, but of what?

His vibrant lightless eyes stare on.

His white teeth are the only light in the room.


End file.
